Brewing Up a Storm

by Deaver Brown

  After that things simply snowballed out of control. Two hotel chains scrapped their modest plans in favor of full-blown resorts. Fans of the nearby Baseball Hall of Fame proposed a sports facility housing a Triple-A team. Before they could get to their drawing boards, representatives of Culture surfaced, suggesting a multipurpose arena complete with a summer-stock company. Soon gourmet restaurants, first-run cinemas and art galleries were swelling the tide.

  In view of the funding required, John Thatcher was not surprised to find the plane ferrying him to the gala opening filled with familiar faces. At the front of the cabin, the Chase Manhattan was chatting amiably with Manny Hanover. Behind them, brokerage houses spoke to investment bankers. But, as bad luck would have it, his own seatmate was cantankerous old Bartlett Sims.

  “Damned piece of foolishness!” Having corralled his victim early, Sims was well-launched into his usual denunciation. “People don’t need these frills for a vacation. I always sent my wife and children to the beach and they never objected.”

  Thatcher could readily believe it. The only mystery was how Waymark & Sims ever managed to invest in anything, given their senior partner’s blanket disapproval of the postwar world.

  “At least they have good weather for their opening,” Thatcher remarked after a solid half hour of doomsday predictions.

  Sims cast a disenchanted gaze at the clear blue sky.

  “Probably broil everybody alive.”

  Enough is enough. Thatcher’s presence was a salute to the Sloan’s muscular endorsement of the shopping center. But after determining that this would be his companion’s first stop, he decided to defer his own inspection until after a luncheon engagement with Charlie Trinkam.

  “Then this is where we part,” he said firmly as soon as they were debouched at the entrance.

  With several hours in hand he headed into the theme park and was soon watching, with rapt absorption, the hand-fashioning of a bow and its complement of brightly feathered arrows. Then the craftsman, to prove the quality of his work, plunked an arrow dead into the bull’s-eye of a distant target.

  “Wonderful,” cried the woman next to Thatcher.

  “Yes, indeed,” he agreed, joining in the spontaneous applause that was not so much tribute to marksmanship as to a perfectly rounded experience.

  After that he strolled to the dock, from which boats were setting forth to visit the sites of famous Cooper scenes. Claiming the last seat in a giant war canoe, he inserted himself amidst two family parties. As their vessel emerged from the inlet and swung around a promontory into the wide waters of the lake, the festive sights and sounds on shore were left behind. The commentary began with the floating house from The Deerslayer and even the children became spellbound by tales of battle and siege, of silent flights and self-sacrificing diversions. With a grunt of satisfaction Thatcher leaned back and closed his eyes. How wise of the promoters to reject motorized transport! Basking in the sunshine, he could hear the rhythmic sweep of paddles, the wind rustling in the trees of nearby landfalls, the call of birds overhead. He could almost imagine himself in the Finger Lakes of Cooper’s saga. By the end of their tour Thatcher was conceitedly proud of having discovered the perfect antidote to a commercial carnival.

  But as he disembarked he saw that he was not alone in this superior choice. Fresh from his own canoe, Theo Benda was standing at a stall, buying audiotapes of the “Leatherstocking Tales.”

  “Hello, Thatcher,” he said placidly. “I suppose over here you read these books as children, but I never have. They’ll be great for commuting.”

  For years Thatcher had realized that his commitment to New York’s subways and taxis debarred him from a great American experience. It seemed he was in danger of missing a literary phenomenon as well. The pace of nineteenth-century fiction, too slow for most modern purposes, was ideally suited to traffic jams. If the congestion became any worse, Sir Walter Scott would be staging an unlikely comeback.

  “I’m planning to reread The Last of the Mohicans myself,” he said, hastening to keep abreast. “But what are you doing up here anyway?”

  The Mohawk Crossing theme park was strictly teetotal, Benda informed him, but its owners had agreed to sell Quax.

  “Then today is a triumph for you on every front,” Thatcher reasoned. “Elmer Rugby managed to beat out McDonald’s and Burger King.”

  “I know. He was at the ribbon cutting this morning with someone from the Sloan. Claudia and I got sucked into the ceremony too. But now, while she’s doing the pretty with management, I’m free for a couple of hours.”

  “Then why not join us for lunch? I’m due to pick up Charlie Trinkam.”

  “Fine,” said Benda, falling into step and accompanying Thatcher to the Sports Arena, where Charlie Trinkam was discovered reading the announcement of forthcoming events.

  “You’ve got to hand it to them. They sure know how to mix and match,” he announced. “Tonight its The Mikado, tomorrow a rock concert, and then a production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”

  “Something for everyone,” Thatcher agreed, beginning to realize that his silent canoe had been part of a larger design. Changes of pace were available everywhere, from gambling to golf courses, from shopping to “Titwillow” under the stars. “But why are we meeting here?”

  “There’s a French restaurant a block further along, but I wanted you to see something,” said Charlie with a wave across the street at a large, gleaming Rugby’s. “How’s that for location?”

  Still expanding on Elmer’s horse sense, Charlie led them to L’Aiglon, where the lounge was crowded with patrons waiting for the hostess to seat them.

  “Isn’t that the guy from NOBBY?” asked Benda in an undertone. “Christ, do you think they’re planning trouble here? They can’t be that dumb.”

  “And if they were, they couldn’t get a congressman to eat with them,” Thatcher began as Harry Hull sighted their party and edged forward with a cheerful greeting.

  Sean Cushing, unwillingly trailing in his wake, was swift to disavow any threat.

  “I’m just here as an observer,” he blurted, then added, “Actually Iona was the one supposed to come.”

  This practically forced everybody to inquire about Mrs. Perez’s well-being.

  “She’s getting out of the hospital tomorrow. The only injury is to her arm, but she was badly shaken up.”

  Hull meanwhile had identified Charlie Trinkam. “You’re Rugby’s banker, aren’t you? I was just asking Sean if there’s been any progress on that settlement.”

  “Elmer’s playing his cards close to his chest on this one,” Charlie replied. “He did say something about coming up with a proposal he wants to lay out.”

  “Well, if he wants to suggest something, he’s got to tell us what it is,” Cushing grumbled.

  Charlie was a big believer in tit for tat. “He thinks he should wait until Iona Perez is on her feet,” he said reproachfully as the harried hostess came swimming to Hull’s side.

  “Table for five,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument, then swung around and headed briskly for the dining room.

  Hull’s mouth was half open to protest when he was overridden by Charlie Trinkam, already following the hostess.

  “You don’t mind if we piggyback on your reservation, do you, Hull?” he asked over his shoulder.

  With little choice left, the congressman urged the others along, but as soon as they were seated, he apologized.

  “Sorry about this,” he said, more to Theo Benda than to Cushing. “I didn’t mean to force Kichsel and NOBBY to break bread together.”

  From behind his enormous menu, Benda was amiable. “Why not? Besides, I’m as nosy as the next guy. This gives me a chance to find out why burglars are ransacking NOBBY in the dead of night.”

  A reluctant chuckle escaped Hull. “At least you’re up front about it. I’m curious too. That’s why I was glad to run into you, Sean.”

  “Yeah, Cushing. What the hell is going on at
your place? Dealing in a little Russian uranium on the side?” Charlie asked jovially.

  “There’s nothing going on at NOBBY!”

  Cushing stopped abruptly. To Thatcher the young man looked as if he had been losing weight steadily since Madeleine Underwood’s murder. Today his face was beakier than ever.

  “Well, something must be up for this guy to break in and attack your director,” Charlie said as the voice of common sense.

  “It’s nothing mysterious,” Cushing retorted. “They’re pretty sure he was after Madeleine’s last tape. He didn’t realize that the cops already have it.”

  For a moment there was a dead silence. Then Harry Hull, caught with a water glass to his lips, sputtered, “Last tape?” before retreating into a spasm of coughing.

  Sean grudgingly elaborated. “After the adjournment Madeleine ducked into the office to dictate a tape. And there’s no point in looking at me that way. The cops grabbed it before we could play it.”

  “But that could be a real treasure trove.” Charlie was enthusiastic. “She was burned up enough to tell all.”

  “And she claimed she knew everyone’s personal dirt,” Theo Benda chimed in.

  Thatcher was remembering Madeleine Underwood’s loquacity. “I’ll wager that, even if you didn’t hear the tape, she spoke about it to someone in the office,” he said invitingly.

  “She did tell one of the girls that she was calling a press conference as an alternative platform.”

  Unlike the others, Harry Hull had been thinking instead of giving instant tongue. Now he shook his head. “Look, if she laid it out, chapter and verse, for the cops, they’d be all over someone. It stands to reason she wasn’t specific. I mean, I haven’t heard anything. Have any of you?”

  Thatcher cleared his throat discreetly. “You did say that Moore was unable to come, didn’t you?” he asked Benda.

  “The cops have been after Alec ever since his alibi for the murder blew up. This is just the same old thing,” Benda replied.

  “Nothing’s changed at all,” Cushing insisted.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Thatcher said reflectively. “If everybody at NOBBY knew the tape was already gone, then presumably suspicion has shifted elsewhere.”

  Charlie beamed at Sean. “So now you people are on easy street.”

  “Like hell!” Throughout the discussion Sean Cushing had been crumbling a bread stick. Now he irritably broke off the last piece. “You think it’s fun having a bunch of police auditors poking into every corner and asking a lot of damn-fool questions? When they don’t understand how I had to operate?”

  It was Cushing’s formal opponent who produced a gust of sympathy. “God, I’d hate that,” Theo Benda confessed. “I’m not crazy about having the outside accountants in for the annual report.”

  Within minutes the two financial men were united by fellow feeling. Corporate accounts are called books for a very good reason. Like all books they tell a story, and their authors do not appreciate ham-handed, literal-minded intruders. When Sean Cushing unbent enough to describe, in tones of burning resentment, some of the methods he had been forced to justify, Benda immediately matched him with some outlandish requirement imposed by his own auditors.

  As the technicalities mounted, Harry Hull’s attention strayed. “If Mrs. Perez is going to be back in harness, I may stop off in New York and see what’s going on,” he said. “Leon Rossi would appreciate it and I hate to make this trip just for five minutes on a platform.”

  “I thought this was a long way from your beat,” Thatcher commented.

  Hull was rueful. “The developers are due for a federal commendation on their energy-efficiency program, and no one else wanted to come. As I’m in everybody’s black book at the moment, I thought I’d score a few brownie points. All it entails is handing over a plaque and saying a few words.”

  “You boys can do that sort of thing in your sleep,” Charlie reminded him.

  “Yes, but only the second-termers can do it without being conscious at all.”

  By the time the conversation once again became general, Sean Cushing had finally relaxed. Pushing aside the remains of his poached salmon, he turned to the congressman.

  “Say, I’ve been meaning to ask you. You remember that call-in program in Pennsylvania that you got Madeleine on? When she came back she said it went great. But since seeing her at the hearings I’ve been wondering if she fouled that one up too.”

  “It sure wasn’t a triumph. The host had to cut her off at the pass,” Hull said frankly. “But you can’t really blame her. These call-in shows are unpredictable and people come up with the damnedest things. I remember when I was in the state legislature . . .”

  The young Harry Hull had come primed to discuss cuts in athletic budgets for high schools and ended up arguing about the Texas Rangers’ need for a new starting pitcher. This leisurely anecdote took them through the remains of their coffee and, with the arrival of the check, to the need to pursue their various responsibilities.

  Charlie Trinkam was not only accompanying Thatcher on a tour of the shopping complex, he was acting as guide.

  “Elmer went through it last night and he says most of it is what you’d expect—Gucci, Hermès, Burberry. But the place we shouldn’t miss is the Native American Hall.”

  “They were selling souvenirs at Mohawk Crossing and I’ve already been there,” Thatcher protested.

  “This is something different.”

  The hall was certainly impressive. The decor was in muted tans and grays, the greenery was thick with cacti and sagebrush, the sunken seating areas boasted rustic benches set in sand, the boutiques nestled inside adobe walls. Overhead, the ceiling soared to a lofty glass roof. There was no way the profusion of upscale merchandise could be confused with gimcrack souvenirs. Expensive rugs, handsome blankets, intricate baskets, pottery, leatherwork, jewelry—all could be classed as works of art.

  “And they haven’t restricted themselves to the Iroquois Nations, have they?” observed Thatcher as he noticed that the well-heeled customer, unintimidated by transport difficulties, could buy a towering totem pole from the Northwest, a full-size tepee from the Plains or a birchbark canoe from Maine.

  “They plan to make this a single entrepôt for the quality stuff from the whole country.”

  And their tactics were working with at least one buyer. When Thatcher led the way into a promising blanket shop, he found Claudia Fentiman in her element. She was inspecting two offerings with critical assistance from Elmer Rugby.

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” she cried, inviting admiration. “And just what I need to hang from the balcony over my living room.”

  “You couldn’t do better than buy here,” Elmer said gravely. “Both of them beat anything I’ve seen in New Mexico, but if I were you, this is the one I’d go for.”

  She accepted his counsel, and after arranging for delivery, agreed to join the others as they continued through the hall.

  “Let’s hope we can avoid Roger Vandermeer,” she said. “He’s doing the PR work for one of the resorts and an hour ago he tried to grill me about that settlement with NOBBY. I told him it was nobody’s business but yours, Elmer.”

  Rugby, whose good opinion of Claudia seemed to increase with every encounter, beamed at her.

  “I wish you could tell your boss the same thing. I’m sick and tired of his calls. Kichsel,” he explained to Charlie sarcastically, “thinks it’s my duty to bankrupt NOBBY. I keep telling him it’s my duty to get something out of this for my chain.”

  In an instant Claudia was transformed from careful shopper to irritated company employee.

  “Dean should stick to minding the store,” she said impatiently. “He just can’t leave anything alone. He’s not only nagging you, he’s driving Alec into a nervous breakdown.”

  “Moore is feeling the pressure?” Thatcher asked cautiously.

  “He’s going completely to pieces. And it doesn’t help that he’s told the police he was bar-
hopping during that break-in.”

  Charlie was openly derisive. “Paul Jackson is right. Your man would do better to keep his mouth shut.”

  “It’s probably true,” she countered. “I myself can testify that he had a king-size hangover the next morning.”

  “And all this because of some dark, personal secret? That’s some secret.”

  “Exactly. You’d think Dean would realize that, if Alec won’t tell the police, he’s certainly not going to open up to us,” she said, reverting to her grievance. “But no. He just goes on trying to pressure Alec. So Alec becomes half-hysterical, and when Theo finally produces some sensible advice, he just makes things worse. I can’t tell you how glad I was to get away for the day.”

  “That’s some happy ship you’ve got there,” Charlie snorted.

  Elmer Rugby was more helpful. “Tell you what, Claudia. Why don’t you take the morning flight back and stay to do the casino with me tonight? I’ve been meaning to give it a look.”

  “Tut, tut,” Charlie chided. “Back to your bad old ways, Elmer?”

  “Not on your life. Once I started gambling my whole future on Rugby’s, the blackjack table became pretty flat. I’m just curious.”

  Claudia chuckled. “It sounds great to me. I’d love to come.”

  With harmony restored, Thatcher and Trinkam peeled off for their obligatory inspection of other mall areas. Charlie, however, was unusually silent during the first few minutes of their parade past designer goods. When he finally emerged from his reverie he was not thinking about their most recent companions.

  “Theo Benda is an interesting guy. That gruff shirt-sleeved style of his hides a lot. Did you notice how uptight Cushing was with me and Hull? But Benda had the kid eating out of his hand without any trouble.”

  “A very adroit performance, I thought.”

  “Yeah, but then Claudia Fentiman tells us that, when things are rocky between Moore and Kichsel, somehow Theo Benda just makes a bad situation worse.”

  “So either his conciliatory skills don’t work in the office,” Thatcher said punctiliously, “or he isn’t deploying them.”